


there’s time to turn it around

by limehue



Series: save my soul for me; [6]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Erik Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Sort Of, heyyyy folks we back!, theres sum emotions, this entire series was Erik and tchalla fuckin and then Erik being emo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-29 09:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13924650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limehue/pseuds/limehue
Summary: “Ayo is not forgiving,” T’Challa takes Erik’s bandaged hand and dips his head, mouth brushing gently against his knuckles.Erik clears his throat but doesn’t pull away, “she sharp, man.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! so this is possibly the last update in this series. I’ve split it into two parts. the previous update in this series i don’t think you all enjoyed as much since the support on it completely fell. i understand because it felt as if i kept repeating the same thing over and over again. However! I really hope you all enjoy the last update of this series and I’m so thankful for all the wonderful, insightful and lovely comments you all have left!

He manages somehow, to convince T’Challa to let him spar with a weapon.

Neither the Dora Milaje or the council trust him but T’Challa, with his eyes so warm and wide, is easy to fool, Erik thinks.

He spars a Dora – Ayo – one afternoon when everything seems to move thick and slow like honey. Time itself feels as if it’s slowed down. Two other Dora Milaje stand watch, keeping a close eye on him though Erik, being nearly two months out of shape with little experience with a large spear, gets his ass kicked.

Repeatedly.

“You are a poor match,” she says with a lidded smirk, vicious and catlike, when Erik takes his second hit in their third round, blood pooling on the plastic surface of the boxing ring ground where he falls.

Ayo helps him up and then readies her stance again. He shakes his head, wiping at the corner of his mouth. Bright red blood wets the back of his hand when he pulls it away.

“Nah, I’m done for today.”

She shrugs, “suit yourself.”

Erik waits for her to step out of the ring before sucking in a sharp breath, grimacing at the sting in his mouth and neck.

The two Dora who stand watch don’t move as he makes his way into the back of the training facility, snatching the first aid kit from the wall.

Erik wipes at the blood with an antibacterial wipe that is soothing rather than a sharp sting, leaving tingles on his skin as he cleans the blood. He wraps his hand lazily in stark white bandages and then wipes at his mouth, temple and collarbone where Ayo nicked him with her spear.

Erik applies a healing balm to those cuts, sighing deeply as it already begins to knit away at his cuts, leaving a cool tingle in its wake.

“If you are sore,” one of the Dora who stands watch calls to him, “you should step into the healing tub.”

Erik nods and then follows her finger to a secluded area, partly closed off from the main training facility.

The water is shimmering and an almost brazen blue, white rapids forming at the edges of the tub. Erik pulls off his shirt and shorts, stepping into the tub with a wince.

He shuts his eyes, letting himself sink deep into the tub until every part of him besides his head is submerged. The tub works instantly; he can feel the heat and soreness ebb away and his bruises and cuts become a dull, slower pain.

Erik buries himself deeper in the tub as if the water is sand, warm and gritty against his skin like the harsh, familiar sand against his cheek in Afghanistan. The thought, he realizes faintly, is comforting.

He presses down absently on the visible bruise on his wrist, letting the pinch pulse into his blood like the water around him and sighs deeply.

It reminds him, vaguely, of T’Challa’s bruises against his skin, made of pain and pleasure and the sheer feeling of surrender against his will. He remembers, albeit with humiliation, his own mistake in the gardens. His own mind, short circuiting when T’Challa offered him a bare amount of genuine affection.

The thought makes him sick.

Erik shudders.

“Are you busy?”

It’s T’Challa, who stands tall and easy, eyeing Erik in the tub.

He snaps his gaze up, flush and uncomfortably warm from the heat of the water, “nah.”

“I’ve dismissed the Dora.” T’Challa says, ducking his head.

Erik laughs, rolling his shoulders lazily, “you gonna stand there all day?”

T’Challa toes his sandals off, tongue peeking out barely behind his sharp grin.

He strips and slowly enters the tub, clasping one hand on Erik’s shoulder.

“Ayo is not forgiving,” T’Challa takes Erik’s bandaged hand and dips his head, mouth brushing gently against his knuckles.

Erik clears his throat but doesn’t pull away, “she sharp, man.”

T’Challa nods, almost thoughtful and then kisses Erik, pulling away briefly and then again, harder, teeth nipping at the fresh cut on his mouth.

He winces, one hand coming to T’Challa’s face to pull him closer.

And for a moment, in the excessively hot tub, with T’Challa’s mouth against his, his hand trailing lazily across Erik’s sternum, he lets himself forget about the gardens.

Lets himself forget his own mistakes and unforgivable failures.

—

T’Challa tells him when they’re finished, tugging their clothes on, that he’s visiting the outreach facility in Oakland in a week.

“Let me come.” Erik says abruptly and T’Challa doesn’t meet his gaze, pulling his sandals back on. 

“You cannot leave Wakanda, Erik.”

“Let me come,” he repeats and reaches for T’Challa, fingers smoothing across the short scruff of T’Challa’s beard and cupping his jaw.

“T’Challa, let me go home, once.”

T’Challa looks almost worried so Erik nudges his nose against T’Challa’s cheekbone.

“They don’t trust you.” He pauses, “I don’t trust you.”

And Erik knows. Know that none of the Wakandan’s trust him and neither does T’Challa. And they would be almost as stupid as everyone else Erik fooled before if they did. T’Challa might let Erik use a spear but what good is a spear when he is closed off to four walls? T’Challa, Erik knows, is no idiot.

“No weapons. You can have me supervised 24/7.”

T’Challa looks mildly assured, eyes narrow and brow furrowed slightly, still hesitant.

“I ain’t gonna try shit, shoot me on the spot if I do.” He tries.

For a moment, T’Challa is silent.

And then T’Challa gives him a slow nod, “the council will not be convinced easily.”

“Yeah,” Erik mumbles lowly, “those old fuckers would have me buried 10 feet in the ground.”

T’Challa furrows his brow and shakes his head, “I cannot make decisions without their guidance.”

“Thought you were king, man.” He scoffs and let’s his hand drop.

T’Challa lets out a deep breath, “and what would you know about being king?”

Erik, despite the flush of anger and heat building in his chest, doesn’t reply.

—

T’Challa, in all his righteous, kingly glory and power, stays true to his word.

Two days later, Erik is summoned to attend a council meeting.

The council, as T’Challa predicted, is highly against the idea.

“You cannot let him leave!” One of the tribal leaders exclaims and T’Challa tips his head back and shakes his head.

“His medical reports, psychological evaluations and tests have proven him perfectly fit to leave the country.”

“He’s a murderer!”

Silence befalls the room.

Erik doesn’t move, only turns his gaze towards T’Challa.

T’Challa stays perfectly still for a moment and then turns to the man who spoke, tilting his head slightly.

“You would doubt the blood of your king?”

Erik presses his mouth together and ignores the sudden churn in his stomach.

“You would doubt your king?” His voice is even and cool and for a moment, no one in the throne room speaks.

“Your highness,” an older tribal leader speaks up, “it is not wise to let him leave the borders.”

Erik lets his gaze fall to T’Challa who sits with almost no emotion on his face, eyes catching the way his hand tightens against the fabric of his tunic momentarily.

“N’Jadaka will accompany me, princess Shuri and general Okoye to America and that,” he pauses, “is the word of your king.”

He waves a hand and the meeting is adjourned.

—

Erik isn’t fond of Oakland.

His father’s body, limp and lifeless and so utterly human, haunts him and he’s not eager to go back to the same stricken streets and see the world, hateful and wrong, again.

He has no plan but if can make it out of Wakanda, then escape, he realizes with an impatient ache, is only an afterthought..

They leave in a week and Erik spends everyday leading up to it sparring with the Dora Milaje.

—

Okoye does not leave his side.

The morning they’re set to leave, Erik slips out of T’Challa’s room with a limp settling in his body and a headache. Okoye is two steps behind him, following him to his room.

“Lady, get off my back,” he grumbles and slams the door shut when she doesn’t reply.

Erik takes a shower and then dresses in something reasonable; black jeans and a dark red sweatshirt. He waits, scribbling a few useless thoughts in his journal before tucking it into his clothes and tossing the pen to his bed. He waits until Okoye knocks several times on his door before he stands and they leave.

Okoye escorts him to the jet with a steady, unchanging face and eyes T’Challa with a look that’s unreadable to Erik when they board.

T’Challa looks regal; with the likes of a king and the smile of a brighter, younger man. Erik wonders what it would take to wipe that smile from T’Challa’s mouth and hopes, uneasily, that he never witnesses it.

“Hey man,” he says and then nods towards Shuri.

Her mouth twists into a scowl and she turns away.

“Damn, she ain’t happy to see me.”

T’Challa turns to him with a flat expression, “you tried to kill her.”

“Tried to kill a lot people,” he replies and then shrugs.

—

Oakland looks the same, unsurprisingly.

His old building, however, does not.

They land the jet on the helipad on the roof of the building but from what Erik can see, the paint is a smooth, pale grey and it seems in much better shape than he remembers.

Inside the walls are a stark white and the floors are gleaming and shiny; everything looks pristine and new and Erik doesn’t dare touch a single thing.

A woman with a bright smile shows them around the first floor, explaining little bits and pieces of information about the use of vibranium and the statistics of people who have so far benefited from it. Shuri wanders off almost immediately, leaving Okoye in Erik’s proximity and T’Challa a few feet away, following the guide.

Erik doesn’t listen much, only picking up a few sentences as he scans the entire floor, gaze flickering to the doors and exits, catching a few discreet, almost unnoticeable cameras.

“You look distracted.” T’Challa comments in a quiet voice, not turning to Erik as he continues to smile and nod at the woman showing them around.

“Nah, just looking around.”

They stay for a few more hours, visiting the different sections with Erik and Okoye staying in the back as T’Challa gives a short speech to a group of volunteers.

“Okoye, please find Shuri so that we may leave.” T’Challa says after they’ve finished with the tour.

Okoye jerks her head and turns, marching almost stoically in her heels.

“You done a good thing here,” Erik says finally with a click of his tongue.

“Not how I planned,” he continues, “but maybe it’ll work.”

T’Challa meets his eyes and then smiles, a gentle twitch of his lips, “this is partly your doing, Erik.”

Erik furrows his brow and tips his head back, offering T’Challa a half shrug, “I know.”

—

The hotel they’re staying in is possibly the grandest Erik has ever seen in Oakland.

In the morning, T’Challa tells him, Shuri will unveil her newest scientific invention at the outreach centre and then they will leave Oakland.

He realizes the window of opportunity is brief and quick and given his situation and inability to contact anyone, it will either work or he will end up captive again.

Only this time, he’s certain it will be in shackles.

And he wants, so badly to fight his way out of this situation, to fight and escape from T’Challa’s grasp and be free again. He wants to believe he would die for that; would die for his freedom since he was robbed of it the first time and surely, T’Challa would show him mercy and kill him this time. 

Surely.

But when T’Challa slips beneath his sheets, deft fingers slipping around Erik’s wrist and gripping tightly, he wonders, if that is even an option anymore. When T’Challa presses his mouth, hot and soft and slick against Erik’s neck, leaving small bruises in his wake, he wonders if he is ever capable of escaping T’Challa.

And the thought that strikes him the most, sending a wave of uneasiness down his spine is the thought that maybe he does not want to.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up before T’Challa, just as the mellow morning light spills from the windows in beams, dancing almost lazily on the high points of T’Challa’s face. For a moment, with his breathing slow and his mouth turned down softly, T’Challa looks almost younger and gentler. Sunlight casts shadows against his cheekbones and Erik ignores the slight increase in the otherwise steady thump of his heart.

Forcibly, he tears his gaze away.

—

They visit the centre again, this time to unveil Shuri’s invention. Erik sits comfortably in the back with Okoye behind rows of reporters and volunteers, all eager to see what the genius princess of Wakanda had in store.

And even Erik can admit, the purifier for large bodies of water, is impressive.

One single drop, she explains, is enough to clean and purify an entire lake of untreated water in an instant.

Erik claps slowly when she’s finished and lets his gaze flicker to T’Challa, who watches Shuri finish her presentation with a certain beam.

He watches as T’Challa claps gently on her shoulder and her small smile stretches into a grin as she shoves him towards the podium.

As Shuri steps down, T'Challa steps up to address the small crowd. Erik eases his chair back, slowly, until his head nudges the wall.

“You a smart girl,” he mumbles quietly to Shuri when she passes him to take a seat next to Okoye.

She snorts, “I know.”

T’Challa says the usual about Wakanda and their tech and using their tech to help the people around the world. He’s heard T’Challa mumble it enough in the shower yesterday that Erik only half listens.

He lets his eyes wander, automatically scanning the people in the room. After years of looking behind his own shoulder, the urge to scan and decipher people is almost second nature.

And perhaps Erik’s mind has slowed down enough to catch the finer details that everyone else is too busy to see. Slowed down enough for him to catch two men pacing the room almost uneasily. Slowed down for him enough to notice that one of them as a gun. He wonders, for a split second, how no one in this room full of the most advanced technology in the room, notices them besides Erik.

And the thing is, Erik has always been quicker with his actions than he was with his brain. He sees one of them approach the podium and somehow, he feels himself stand and belatedly, he realizes, he should be faster so he picks up the pace, pushing past a disgruntled reporter.

“Everybody down!” He hears himself yell and glances back briefly as Okoye seems to catch on, sliding over Shuri and covering her almost completely.

Everything happens almost lightning fast; Erik manages to skid across the polished floors and steps in front of the gunman and T’Challa. From the corner of his eye, he can see T’Challa morph into the black panther suit but the bullet still fires. It occurs to him, almost suddenly, that the urge to shield T’Challa was almost instinctive. It occurs to him that T’Challa is quick, quicker than Erik and that his suit would have certainly protected him.

It occurs to Erik that there is no suit to protect him.

Bullets, Erik remembers faintly, always did hurt like a bitch.

He can hear T’Challa call his name as he falls to the floor, head making contact with the cool floor. He feels the dull crack run hot down his spine. There are abrupt, sudden screams and shouts of people scattering as they attempt to escape from danger. Erik feels someone’s boot kick hard against his side as they flee.

He groans, one hand flying to the bullet wound in his chest, pressing down hard. A sharp, searing pain spreads from his chest towards his neck and arms; he gasps, shuddering almost violently as he attempts to get up. It doesn’t work; the bullet in his chest restricts all movement almost instantly.

From the floor, he can see T’Challa apprehend the one of the men with ease as Okoye handles the second one.

He gapes, aching for a breath, sudden distress blaring in his mind when he realizes blood is pooling inside his mouth. He coughs, a sickly, wet noise, splattering crimson red on the stark floors.

“T’Challa,” he sputters, wiping feebly at the corner of his mouth. The words almost hurt to say.

“Erik,” T’Challa breathes, “stay still. Don’t move and stay awake. Just a few more seconds, Erik.” His words are quick and soft against Erik’s cheek, his arm wrapping tight around Erik’s shoulder, his head falling into T’Challa’s lap.

The pain in his chest disappears for a few moments; Erik feels his head lolling in T’Challa’s lap as he struggles to keep his eyes open.

He’s so tired.

In the back of his brain he can hear T’Challa call his name. He can hear T’Challa mumble insistently against his ear, a litany of his own name, _Erik, hold on, Erik, please_. Can feel his mouth pressed against Erik’s temple, his fingers shaking against Erik’s chest.

He coughs again, lungs screaming unable to breathe, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, it feels as if he’s not there anymore, as if he can see T’Challa, can hear the desperation in his tone but can’t respond.

For a moment, Erik feels helpless.

It occurs to Erik somewhat slowly that he might die. He was prepared before, in Wakanda with a spear buried deep inside his chest. It feels different this time; a sense of unsettled panic jabs harshly at his throat, creating a whirlpool of emotion inside his brain. It feels wrong.

And it hurts, he realizes, it hurts so bad. T’Challa’s hand trembles against his forehead and he wants to stay awake, wants to open his eyes and catch a glance at T’Challa’s face one more time but it hurts so damn bad.

Erik struggles and struggles and then, he gives in.

—

For the second time in a short span of two months, Erik wakes up gasping.

The lights are sharp, vivid and white; Erik grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut, taking a slower, deeper breath.

“Erik?” It’s T’Challa, mouth turned down, eyes weary and tired.

“Hey, man,” Erik says, voice raspy and throat unbelievably dry.

He coughs, lifting one arm to gesture to the jug on the table beside him. T’Challa scrambles, pouring a glass and lifting it almost gently to Erik’s mouth. He takes a few gulps, pushing the glass away when he’s done.

“How are you feeling?” T’Challa asks.

“Like shit,” he replies and then offers a short, crooked smile.

He suddenly becomes aware of T’Challa’s hand, fingers long and warm, entwined with his.

“You took a bullet for me.” T’Challa’s voice goes strange; a cross between disbelieving and worn.

Erik clears his throat, turning away from T’Challa, “yeah.”

“You took a bullet for me.” He repeats and Erik sighs, using his free hand to rub the ache and tiredness from his eyes.

“A room full of people and no one saw those two goons with the gun,” Erik mutters, “‘course I jumped, man, you ain’t supposed to be dead, remember?”

T’Challa shakes his head, frown deepening, “you could’ve died, Erik.”

Erik laughs, a short, dry noise, “I was tryin’ to find a way to escape, y’know?” He admits, “changed my mind last minute.”

T’Challa’s gaze stays fixed on his, eyes steady and hard.

“Yeah, and if I failed, wouldn’t have mattered if I jumped in front of you or not, you would’ve ran your panther claws through my chest anyway.” He scoffs.

T’Challa’s grip on his hand tightens and he doesn’t speak for a moment.

“I do not,” T’Challa says carefully, and then pauses, brow furrowed, “I do not believe I could kill you even if you attempted to escape.” He finishes, ducking his head slightly.

And Erik almost believes that, the way T’Challa’s eyes, so full of sincerity and an emotion Erik doesn’t dare to question, flicker from Erik’s eyes to his chest. Almost believes that some part of T’Challa would give a big enough shit about him to show him mercy a second time. Mercy he’s not sure he deserves nor wants.

Almost.

Instead, he doesn’t reply and slides his hand from between T’Challa’s out and towards his wrist, tugging him closer. T’Challa slips out of his seat, one hand coming to rest beside Erik’s head on the pillow, mouth tender and warm as he kisses Erik, letting Erik slide a hand across the nape of his neck.

“Wish you’d just let me die,” he mumbles when they pull away and T’Challa nudges his nose against Erik’s jaw, hard.

“Never,” he whispers almost fiercely and despite the quietness surrounding them, Erik shivers.

“Never, so long as Bast gives me strength, will I let harm come to you.”

Erik sucks in a shaky breath and wants, so badly, to turn away and not have to look at T’Challa now. Absently, he notices the tears that slip from his eyes. He can feel his throat close slightly, swallowing the painful lump that’s developed when T’Challa mouths gently at the bruise on his temple where he fell.

He thinks, faintly, of all the evil and bad and sheer pain he spread trying to reach T’Challa. He thinks about T’Challa, who is so good and kingly and righteous and a better man than Erik, with his forehead pressed to Erik’s, his mouth breathing slow, idle words against Erik’s.

He thinks he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve the affection, the care and perhaps, maybe even the love that radiates from T’Challa. Doesn’t deserve to be alive, his life spared a second time, even though the urge that ebbs inside his chest to die still exists.

And despite it all, he thinks he doesn’t deserve T’Challa. Not now and perhaps never.

The thoughts ring loud and clear in his brain, over and over, like a constant, blaring reminder.

But he doesn’t dare tell T’Challa that.

Instead, he exhales, and then nods, “okay,” he says, and then, tilting his head to press his mouth to T’Challa’s, “okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg folks we made it!! thanks for reading and commenting and supporting this crazy, mess of a series! i hope you enjoyed and stay tuned as i will continue to fill this tag with my mindless fics ahah xxxx

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are appreciated! thank you for encouraging me and supporting me, you’re all amazing!


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